Awakening the Alpha

by Carolina Valdez

  Dwelling on moments like those weren’t good for him. He forced his thoughts away from the bewitching hours together, from the smell of food cooking and the taste of Blaze’s lips on his own—at first soft and exploring and then hot, urgent, and devouring.

  Flipping a switch in his mind, he spoke in a quiet voice, telling Kenu of his experience with the bison.

  Kenu smiled and nodded. But when Logan told of speaking Shoshone to the black wolf without effect, the old man’s head bobbed up. His voice was sharp as he asked, “He skinwalker, too?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t considered it.”

  “And your skinwalker friend killed to protect you?”

  “I…well, yes.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. And you. Why were you in this valley?”

  Guilt infused him. “I was told not to go in alone, but I did. To sketch bears, wolves, and river otters.”

  Kenu nodded. “I see.” He settled back into contemplation again.

  The fish didn’t seem to be biting, and they continued to sit without speaking. At first, Logan had felt restless, as if he had some great problem that must be addressed immediately, before it tore him apart, but the longer they sat, the more relaxed he became. He watched iridescent green dragonflies skim the pond’s surface and heard small frogs beginning to call to each other. Memories of fishing here with this man when he was a prepubescent boy tumbled through his mind.

  Kenu interrupted his thoughts abruptly with, “Tommy Running Deer.”

  “What about him?” He’d been one of Logan’s friends in elementary school.

  “At the last powwow he performed the sacred bear dance in full regalia. You know we believe we take on the actual spirit of the animal—become it—when we dance. Now this Tommy Running Deer…is he skinwalker?”

  “Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

  Kenu looked straight into his eyes. “Is it?”

  “He removes the costume, and he’s just plain Tommy Running Deer again.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “So you say.”

  “Tommy is not a skinwalker.” Logan felt irritated at the idea.

  “Really? We must think on this.”

  They sat without speaking for another twenty minutes, then, with a sigh, his grandfather pulled his pole from the water. “These fish will not come to us. We’ll eat in the diner tonight.”

  Chapter 10

  For the next few days, Logan remained with his grandfather and pondered what he’d experienced in the Lamar Valley. If he’d expected any further insights from the older man, he was to be disappointed. They didn’t happen. He was on his own in this matter.

  As he had as a boy, he borrowed a horse and ambled shoeless and bareback through the reservation, greeting people he knew. Later, he slid from the horse, tied the reins to a tree, and skinny-dipped in the cold, clean waters of a favorite pool deep in the forest.

  On the third day, he returned to the pond, and this time—unlike when he’d been with his grandfather—the fish came to him. Was this a good omen? He hoped it was, but the part of him that had been raised white wasn’t sure.

  It was all so confusing, this straddling of two worlds.

  To Kenu’s smiles and a pounding on his back, he brought home a couple of fat brown trout for their dinner. He removed the scales and head, and the small house filled with the scent of butter sizzling in an iron skillet as his grandfather carefully laid the floured fish in to cook.

  That evening, Logan visited the small museum in the large, stone administrative building, which housed the health center and the conference room where the tribal council met. He entered the small museum of Shoshone and Indian artifacts he hadn’t been in for many years. He gazed on a portrait of the most famous of the Shoshone men, Washakie, chief of the Eastern Shoshone in the 1800s, an effective liaison for his people with white men.

  The chief’s high cheekbones were prominent. Logan ran his fingertips over his own cheekbones, feeling the arch just beneath his eyes, and remembered how Kenu had told him it was one of the marks of his Native blood. There’d been years in his life when he’d wished he didn’t have them…or the warm tone to his skin. Although there were still moments when he felt the sting of rejection—as there had been when he’d signed up for class in the shooting range’s office—he could now accept and feel pride in who and what he was.

  Across the way, the charcoals and pastels Logan had donated were prominently displayed, along with a magazine article about the upcoming celebration of the opening of his exhibition in the Smithsonian in DC. He smiled when his gaze fell on the copy of the potlatch gift his grandfather had prepared for him. It was now framed and hanging in a place of honor. The original of this had been purchased by the Smithsonian, and great pride swelled in his chest over the honor.

  There were some beautiful photos of the wildlife on the rez, including rattlesnakes and wild pigs. He stood for a long time in front of those of coyotes, foxes, and wolves, studying them intently. Talk to me, he said in his mind. They remained silent.

  Coyotes were always gray and white, while wolves came in several colors, including black, like the renegade who would have killed him. Those shown here were brown, and he realized he preferred the coloring of the gray wolves. Like Blaze.

  Blaze. He still couldn’t get his mind around what he had seen. Bitterness spread in him at what had been kept from him even as they’d caressed, fucked, and fallen in love. If he hadn’t ignored Blaze’s warning and been stalked by the black wolf, would Blaze have ever told him what he was sleeping with?

  He shuddered. Probably not, and, if Blaze was a skinwalker, how might that have already affected Logan’s spirit, his soul?

  He left the museum still feeling unsettled about what Blaze was.

  The next morning, he prepared to leave. Temperatures had dipped the night before, prompting Kenu to predict an early snow in Yellowstone. Still, at first light, Logan had dipped—like the warriors of old before a battle—in the icy waters of the pool, washing his skin with a nonpolluting cleanser and shampoo. He’d shivered on the bank as he rubbed the rough terrycloth towel over his skin until the friction turned it red and he was dry.

  Back at the house, he brushed and combed his hair, letting it air dry as he packed the car. Then he cleaned his room and made breakfast for the two of them. Just before he left, he gathered the still slightly damp lengths of his hair back and tied them at his nape with a narrow thong.

  As he hugged Kenu good-bye, the old man spoke a blessing over him in their native language. Then he added in the same language, “We Shoshone admire the wolf for its strength, wisdom, and power.”

  Logan agreed that Blaze had strength and power, but as for wisdom, he wasn’t sure.

  Through the hours of driving through the park, Logan bargained with himself about confronting Blaze. It was like a woman picking daisy petals; instead of Blaze loves me; he loves me not, it was I’ll see him; I’ll see him not.

  It was early enough in the day that Canis should be home, and, as he’d expected, his car was gone from the Lamar Valley when Logan reached it. As he left the park and entered West Yellowstone, the I’ll see him petal won. Trembling with fear and anger, he turned toward Blaze’s house, planning exactly what he would say and how he would ease into the subject of Blaze’s supernatural nature.

  * * * *

  Still in wolf form, Blaze felt relieved when Logan safely fled the valley. His car was gone by the time Blaze returned to the clearing to recover his clothes. Gripping them with his teeth, he dragged them to the wolves’ rendezvous site—a sort of den above ground that served as the pack headquarters—and dropped them with the clothes of the others.

  He moved among them now, the only wolf with his tail high as a sign of his status. Some of the wolves licked his wounds to clean them and allow for healing, and he waited patiently for them to finish.

  His inherited pack consisted of four older cubs, eight adults—four males and four females—with different coloring and markings. Some
had more dark than light, but none were solid black like the rogue. At least he detected no dissension over the killing of the former leader. It seemed he hadn’t been too popular. He would learn more once they changed into human again.

  The cubs huddled around one of the females. She was beautiful—fair of form, her coat blue-gray and white, her fur tipped in black in places. Here was obviously the alpha female. Blaze tipped his head to her in recognition of her importance as a breeder. Cubs were necessary for a pack to survive, but usually only an alpha and his or her partner mated to produce them. He wondered if this alpha female belonged to the black. If so, he picked up no signs that she grieved his death either.

  She sidled up to him and rubbed her nose against his in invitation.

  Judging from the age of the cubs, it was time for her to be pregnant with a new litter. Blaze’s gut churned at the thought. He hoped she didn’t expect him to mate with her, because even in animal form, he would never cheat on Logan.

  Memories of his first experience as a young wolf reaching the age to mate caused a bad taste in his mouth. Blaze had mounted a female in estrus and discovered once he’d stuck his cock into her, the base of it swelled and her walls clamped down so hard, he couldn’t break free. He was stuck.

  He’d been forced to corkscrew around a hundred and eighty degrees until they were butt to butt. For what he figured was half an hour, orgasm after orgasm racked him as he sent shot after shot of spunk into her. It was painful and exhausting. There was nothing pleasurable about it, and it was his last venture with females. After that experience, he realized he was only attracted to males…human or wolf.

  He thought of Logan, wondering how he was dealing with the shock of seeing him change, and missed him in a deep and heart-wrenching way.

  Those memories were interrupted by the beta’s powerful nudging as he shoved him aside, golden eyes challenging, to stand beside the cubs and the woman in a fighting stance.

  Relief shivered through Blaze. Thank heaven, they’re mates. Lifting his head in authority, Blaze snarled at being handled disrespectfully, then he nudged the two together and stepped back in recognition and approval that she belonged to the beta. Relief rolled through him when he knew he wouldn’t be expected to have sex with her.

  The wolves milled around, waiting to see what he would do next. He was wondering that himself…until alarm spiked as he realized how thin they were. Fall was approaching, and with the scarcity of prey in the deep winter snows, their bodies needed fat stores before the weather changed.

  Blaze lifted his head and grimaced in disgust that the rogue had neglected his job in caring for them. There was no question as to what his first action had to be. He turned and stalked out of the lair. After scenting, he headed at a steady run for the nearest elk herd twenty miles away.

  They followed him in pecking order, from the beta and his alpha female down to the excited, gamboling cubs eager to hunt.

  Deep in the forest, where no man came, they came upon a rise overlooking a meadow. Blaze looked down on a large herd grazing below. He lowered his body to stealth level in the tall grasses, and the others followed. Although he’d led them to their breakfast, the wolves knew by instinct which small elk was the most vulnerable.

  Silently, they watched as the animal slowed, distracted by delicacies near the ground, and the herd moved on.

  The wolves crept in and circled it.

  Despite his wounds, Blaze led the attack with great force, anger flowing through every vein. Others attacked the flanks. His role as alpha was to lift the struggling animal’s head, grip its nostrils, and pull it to the ground. His strength was fueled by outrage that Logan ignored his advice, forcing Blaze to release his wolf. Now he was trapped. Trapped to live forever in Yellowstone…half animal, half man.

  The sound of pounding hooves signaled the herd fleeing from danger when the cries of the young elk reached their ears and the smell of wolves their noses.

  Blaze released its nostrils when the young elk went limp and its eyes glazed over. Per the ritual from time immemorial, the other wolves stood back so the alpha could rip the kill’s underside open and help himself to the most delicate and tasty tissues of the internal organs. When he’d had his fill, he sank back and watched his followers feed on the succulent flesh.

  When every belly was full, they strolled to a nearby stream and drank from the cold waters. Blaze shook his muzzle in the water to wash away the stench of blood and entrails.

  Overhead, dark bodies of carrion were already circling.

  Blaze had been born to an alpha mother and father. This was the common pairing for pack leaders—male and female mates. Usually they were the only ones in a pack who mated and had cubs. The fact that the black he’d killed had had a male beta had made him wonder if he and the black had been lovers. So far, he hadn’t detected any grieving by his second in command over the death of the former leader. To the contrary, the beta appeared relieved.

  He’d made no sexual advances, and now Blaze understood why; he was already mated.

  Sated from the rich meats, he led the pack away from the kill and the carrion now savaging it. They stretched out on the grasses in the warm sun and let their food settle.

  Blaze had rarely been around children, much less wolf cubs, but he found he enjoyed watching them play despite their full bellies.

  At dusk, he rose, and they drank in the stream again before running toward home.

  * * * *

  Just before sunrise on the third day, the females left the rendezvous for the shelter of the woods while the males gradually metamorphosed into human form and dressed. Blaze, dressed in dirty cammies that had partially shredded as he’d shifted, shook hands as the men introduced themselves. The females remained hidden to do this.

  It was pleasant that morning, and they gathered outside to sit cross-legged in the predawn light as the women, dressed in jeans and tops they had hidden before they shifted, introduced themselves. Blaze crouched, forearms on his thighs so as to remain higher than the others, repeated their names, and learned a bit about them. They lived on the far side of the valley.

  “I have much to learn about you all, but there’s no time now for it. I was born in this valley but have been away most of my life and now teach at the gun range on the other side of the park.”

  “Google us, if you have a computer,” a shaggy-haired man said.

  They laughed, Blaze with them.

  He grew serious as the laughter died. “I can see that Carrigan neglected your needs. We’ll hunt each time we meet, but even in human form, you need to lay on fat to catch up for the days we’ll spend here this winter.”

  “Winters are a bitch here,” Paul said.

  They slipped away one or two at a time so as not to be noticed should nonshifter eyes be on them. Paul White waited until the others were gone and spoke in a quiet voice to Blaze as he admitted killing the videographer. “I know you understand why we had to do it. Carrigan had a humongous erection when we did, and I think he killed that second man just because killing gave him a hard-on. I didn’t see it, but when I saw the news, I was sure it was him who done it.”

  Blaze nodded. “I thought so too. The man he was attacking when I shifted is a close friend of mine. I’d warned him not to come here alone to sketch, but he ignored me. You had no choice with the videographer. I had no choice if I was to save my friend.”

  “I’m glad Carrigan’s gone. I was the new alpha when he challenged me, and I gave in to him. He was cruel, and I was afraid he’d kill me and take Nita from me.”

  “You want the job back?” Blaze hoped against hope he did but was disappointed.

  “Nah. I’m happy the way things are. Never wanted that position in the first place, but it was thrust on me. You’re a good leader. There’s no evil in you.”

  They exchanged phone numbers, and a man hug ended their conversation.

  Blaze emerged from the forest as dawn spread its fingers across the mountains. He hurried across the dewy me
adow to his car, eager to see Logan and explain. A ticket for over parking was waiting, tucked beneath the wiper with a warning the car would be towed tomorrow if not removed. The fine was high but not as expensive as towing, and he now had a ride home. He was sure as hell grateful for not having to walk.

  Logan’s car wasn’t in the carport, and he hoped he was in a safer part of the park or town, doing his thing. He wasn’t sure how the discussion would go when the two of them met again, but he had to own up to it. He was the one who’d hidden a vital part of himself to be with the man he’d grown to love. He hoped Logan would understand. If he didn’t, Blaze wasn’t sure what would happen to their relationship. Mostly probably it would be kaput.

  Because he was as filthy as his torn clothes, he entered the silent house through the back door. He stripped, leaving everything on the floor beside the washing machine, and rushed nude to the bathroom. The hot shower with soap and shampoo felt incredible, and he stayed there until the hot water ran out.

  Clean and dressed in his most comfortable old clothes, he went to the kitchen to make coffee. The sight of his portrait with its unfeeling inscription propped on the table stopped him cold. Agony struck him in the place where he was most vulnerable these days—his heart. He rushed through the house and searched everywhere, but Logan’s things were gone.

  It wasn’t until he returned to the portrait that he noticed the shreds of paper on the floor and recognized bits and pieces of his body in charcoal. It seemed to be a complete denunciation of their intimacy. And underscored his betrayal.

  He sank into a chair and let his tears roll down his cheeks. It had been naive of him, but he hadn’t expected this. The severity of the shock Logan must’ve felt when he’d seen him change struck home. He’d thought Logan loved him the way he loved Logan.